


Gone Away

by Kayani_Iriel



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, feels trip, memorial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayani_Iriel/pseuds/Kayani_Iriel
Summary: Genn attends the yearly memorial service for Varian, and remembers.
Relationships: Genn Greymane/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Gone Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltsoda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsoda/gifts).



> I was writing some VariGenn for a friend, and a Five Finger Death Punch cover came across my Spotify. I ended up on [this cover of Gone Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CU4sNF_WYrY) by Noctura, originally by The Offspring. And then I ended up writing this. I'm sorry.

Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas, accompanies King Anduin Wrynn to the memorial. It’s been three months since the last visit, down to the hour. He knows because he remembers the clock in the Cathedral Distract tolling the time as they walked through there, Anduin’s eyes shifting to it for a moment, his steps faltering as they crossed in front of the Cathedral. Genn almost suggested a stop, a chance for the young king to gather himself, and the Light, inside the stone walls, but he didn't. Today, Anduin’s footsteps are steady, no pausing. He has no time to stop anyway.

It might be a few weeks past midsummer, but the heavy grey clouds and ceaseless downpour make the world feel anything but carefree and warm, as if the weather wishes to mourn with the people. His steps feel leaden, each puddle sloshed through one more obstacle towards the monument he desperately doesn’t want to visit, but knows he has to.

As they draw near, they see the crowds, cloaks drawn tight, hoods up, holding flowers and banners, stalks of corn and wheat, even a few wooden weapons. Genn watches Anduin straighten a fraction, hold his head higher, and sees he’s preparing to turn on his public kingly persona, to make sure his charisma and kindness is felt by everyone assembled at the memorial. It suits the young man, who is not his father, no matter how hard he trains or how much armor he wears. He will grow into his own path, in time.

Genn ascends the steps with Anduin, bowing to him and stepping back, a small bouquet of black roses in one hand. He knows he’ll be scrutinized by some of the crowd, but the bulk of the attention will be on Varian’s son, and that suits him fine. He’s in attendance because he has to be, not because he wants to be. The scars are still too fresh.

Those last minutes on the Broken Shore: the flight to the gunship, that Fel Dreadnought catching them just before the escape to safety, Varian’s last request. A year has passed, but the wounds feel as if they were inflicted moments before.

“Greetings, citizens of the Alliance. Thank you for coming,” Anduin begins, and Genn stops listening He recalls Remembrance Days now past, when Varian would stand up, Anduin at his side, and give a speech praising the deeds of men and women fallen in battle. “To never forget what we’ve fought so hard to keep,” he’d often say. Genn only recollects snippets of speeches, each different and the same, but remembers the night after the last. Remembers a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a fire burning low in the grate. How two men sat side by side, not saying a word for hours. Then, retiring to Varian’s chambers, to offer comfort and take solace in the only way they knew how.

“It has been exactly one year since my father, King Varian Wrynn, former king of Stormwind and previous High King of the Alliance, sacrificed himself so we might have a chance against the Legion,” Anduin continues, and Genn realizes he’s gripped the roses hard enough to prick himself. He ignores the blood. Varian would have laughed at him, being bloodied by something as simple as a plant. He chuckled the night Genn cut his hand on a broken wineglass. chuckled, and then helped him pick the splinters out for half an hour, before cleaning and bandaging the wound for him. They’d fallen asleep on the sofa that night, Genn’s head in his lap.

“Our battle rages on, but I have every expectation we will be victorious. Even now, our forces are beating back the enemy in many places in the Broken Shore, and we are exacting justice for what was done to King Varian Wrynn, and countless others.” Genn makes sure to paste a neutral expression on his face. Varian had his own views on justice, just as he does. Untold nights they would argue until well after midnight over what was revenge, what was justice, and who had the right of it. After one such night, he was so incensed he’d nearly ended up in worgen form, with claws in the chest of the king he served. Varian somehow knew how close he’d come to severe injury, but didn’t seem to care. He’d coaxed Genn into the bedroom, and encouraged him to take out his rage in more… lascivious ways. The next day both men had stumbled through endless meetings and appointments, only to meet up after dinner, fall into bed, and do it all over again.

The wind has kicked up, cold and brutal for summer, chilling him to the core. Rain pours down still, stinging his cheeks, hiding his tears. They had little time, just a couple years, but it felt like moments. Never enough time, not with Varian gone so young. Older than his father, but still, too young, especially when Genn’s had too many years.

Anduin is still speaking, but Genn is lost in memories, and no longer caring what’s being said. Varian’s laugh when Genn cracks a rare joke. That long brown horsetail, taken down when he’s ready to retire for the night. How his face would soften when he spoke of Anduin. The feel of the scars on his face, traced under calloused fingers. How he’d stiffen and shudder as Genn coaxed his climax from him. Nightmares that would lessen if he had someone pressed against him. The presence of too many worgen, or just him in worgen form too long, would make him sneeze. His love of a good drink. A surprisingly gentle touch when he wanted to be.

“And now, let us raise our hands, and shout the names of those we remember, so they may never be forgotten!” Anduin’s cry shakes him from his reverie, and he raises the bouquet without thinking. In front, the crowd lifts fists and flowers, banners and battleaxes, and begins shouting names. He hears Anduin shout his father’s name, but all he manages is a whisper.

“Varian.”


End file.
